Dissonance III
by thaliaarche
Summary: Disenchanted with her marriage, Elizabeth turns her attentions from Ciel to his butler. Their unlikely relationship brings strange secrets to light. (No prior knowledge of the Dissonance series required.)
1. Chapter 1

The day came when Sebastian was not there to stay Ciel's hand, and the slap reverberated throughout the manor's halls.

Elizabeth ran from their bedchamber— her bedchamber, as Ciel had coolly reminded her just then— stumbling down dark hallways, tripping on the grand, blood-red carpet of the main stairs. To the new bride, the mansion seemed grotesquely large, swathed with shadows she had somehow never noticed as a child.

As a child, she would have responded to Ciel's darkness with ribbons, with toys and music and her own, soaring giggles. But she had learned over the past few years that no amount of shimmering clothes would lighten Ciel's mood. And no matter how many glittering, fairy-tale balls she arranged, he would not play her prince, would not even try.

She was Elizabeth Midford Phantomhive, a woman of the two strongest families in Britain, so she didn't cry. Instead, she did what she had seen so many adults who didn't cry do. She made her way to the dining room, with its well-stocked liquor cabinet.

"My lady."

Startled, she let the glass slip, yet that butler, inexplicably appearing next to her as if out of thin air, caught it inches from the ground. He glanced up at her, her slight frame now shaking with fright as well as rage. She stared back for a moment and then began to speak, to beg that he wouldn't tell Ciel and give him more reasons to dismiss her a foolish wisp of a girl . . .

He cut her off. "Would you care for some tea?"

* * *

She studied him over the cup of steaming tea— a gentle, calming oolong he had received just that day. She praised its delicate flavors, and he smiled in return, sitting down across from her without taking any tea himself.

It was unusual, of course, for a lady of her status to ask a butler to sit at the table with her. Elizabeth, however, had never mistaken Sebastian for a normal servant. Though she noticed a slight crease in his youthful brow and traces of weariness in his rich, red-brown eyes, she felt— as she had the first day she saw him, standing by her miraculously alive cousin— that he was somehow supernatural.

Sebastian watched her as well. These months of marriage, filled with empty days as Ciel roamed abroad for his missions and punctuated by tempestuous arguments whenever he did return, had been unkind to the young lady. Left alone with only the other servants and too many snakes for company, she wore dark frocks everyday, the sober hues accompanied by shadows under her eyes and hollows in her cheeks. Sebastian wondered whether her prior gayness hadn't been more aesthetically pleasing.

"Tell me, Sebastian," Elizabeth broke their thoughtful silence, "Was he always like this?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"How can you not? You have been far closer to Ciel than anyone, these past few years. If anyone knows whence his cruelty comes, it's you."

Sebastian gazed at her green eyes— more perceptive, perhaps, than he had suspected. "I do know what you mean, then. And yet I can't answer."

Elizabeth took a sip of her tea, considering. "He told me once, without thinking much of it, that you couldn't lie even if lives depended on it."

"That was a rather foolish admission on his part."

"It's true, then? You can't lie to me?"

"Indeed."

"Though you can still play with my words," Elizabeth mused. Setting her jaw, she fixed her eyes on Sebastian and asked outright, "What's the most evil thing he's done as the Watchdog?"

"'Evil' is hard to define, but perhaps burning down a building full of kidnapped children would qualify."

She gasped and clenched her eyes shut, but she reopened them a moment later, shaking her head. "Is he tortured, then, by guilt over that act or some other?"

"I do not think he feels guilt for any act."

"Because he is fighting for good?"

"Because he fights for the queen," Sebastian replied. Elizabeth detected a note of sarcasm.

"He may yet be guilty in thought, though," she murmured. Then, her eyes grew wide at a new thought. "Sebastian, is he . . . Is he like a character out of that Oscar Wilde novel?"

Sebastian raised an eyebrow at her stammering. "I once again don't know what you mean. That is a frightfully ambiguous question."

She grimaced. "It's difficult to put this delicately."

"You need not worry about protecting my innocence, Lady Elizabeth."

Now Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "To the best of your knowledge, has he ever asked a man to be his lover?"

Sebastian stared at the woman before him, crimson irises flickering. "No," he finally said, his voice soft and low. "He has never asked, to my knowledge."

"I hoped he might have someone he cared for," Elizabeth looked down, speaking to her empty cup.

"You would have him be happy, even in someone else's arms?"

"If it would save him from his own bitterness, yes," she replied curtly. "I mourned him once, Sebastian. I didn't intend to ever do so again."

"And what of your own bitterness?" Sebastian questioned, standing to refill her tea.

"A proper lady is never bitter."

"Your grief, then. What can save you from being consumed yourself?"

Elizabeth pondered for a moment, as the only sound came from the tea trickling into her cup. Finally, she shrugged. "You can."

"I can?"

"Of course," she tossed her golden curls, wearing her first true smile in days. "Fence with me."


	2. Chapter 2

Sebastian and Elizabeth did battle, their blades clashing as Ciel shut himself in his study. The very first day, Elizabeth won handily, slipping the sword past Sebastian's defense to stab him where his heart would be.

Her eyes immediately narrowed. "You let me win. Why?"

"I will admit I held myself back. It is your first time fencing in many months, after all . . ."

"Keep in mind that I am cut from the same cloth as Ciel."

"Oh?"

"I love nothing more than a strong opponent. Their skill makes their ultimate defeat so much more thrilling."

Sebastian smirked at her teasing arrogance, and he easily beat her in each match afterwards. Yet he saw determination unfurling in her, his every victory sparking life back into those dead green eyes. He had to leave the next week, summoned by Ciel to a new adventure, and, even as he slaughtered thugs by the hundred, he found he rather missed those elegant matches with the young lady.

Upon their return, the lady herself greeted the travelers at the front door, a fresh ruddiness in her cheeks. After replying to Ciel's stern nod with an unsmiling greeting of her own, she turned to Sebastian with a barely concealed grin on her lips, indicating with a tilt of her head that the matches would resume immediately.


	3. Chapter 3

Early on the morning of his and Elizabeth's anniversary, Ciel was out of town, and marriage was far from his mind. He and Sebastian were stranded in a swiftly sinking dinghy, bobbing somewhere on the ice-cold Channel.

At the same time, Elizabeth stood before her bedroom mirror, her nightgown's hem swirling at her ankles as she lunged forward, lashed out with the imagined sword in her hand, and then sprang back again. She had not forgotten the date, but she pushed Ciel's absence from her thoughts, instead focusing solely on her footwork.

The earl's carriage rolled up to the manor in the afternoon, and Sebastian helped his master from the coach. Uninjured and implausibly dry, Ciel strode straight-backed to the door where his wife waited, laced into a nut-brown dress.

"Happy anniversary, Lizzie," he uttered, bowing stiffly.

"I wish you the same," she smiled sweetly, "and I am glad to see you in good health. You seemed worried in your last letter . . ."

"This case is presenting me with only the slightest trouble," he replied. "You need not concern yourself with it."

Elizabeth smiled once more, though Sebastian now noticed the irony mixed with the sweetness.

They progressed inside, where Elizabeth presented Ciel with his gift— a tome freshly arrived from America, describing the various monopolists currently thriving there. He thanked her, obviously taken aback by her thoughtfulness, and then nodded to Sebastian, who produced a large box seemingly from midair and placed it before Elizabeth. Opening it, she pulled out a new dress of luscious, shining green, its billowing skirt tucked and pinned and cascading down in troves of ruffles.

"It's so _cute_ ," Elizabeth squealed. "Oh, I have to try it on right now! Paula! Help me into this, Paula . . ."

As she scampered upstairs, Sebastian found himself smiling at the echo of a young girl whom he thought gone forever.

Once dressed, Elizabeth swept back down the stairs, her slender silhouette shimmering in apple-green, her gold curls artfully loosed about her face. Sebastian stopped still at the sight.

"Shall I assume I look lovely?" she said, laughing at his awestruck expression.

"You . . ." Sebastian trailed off, shaking his head. "Few things render me speechless, Lady Elizabeth . . ."

"So I should congratulate myself for managing it," she finished, giggling. "Is Ciel in the study now? I wanted to show him. Did he choose this himself?"

"Not himself, my lady," Sebastian corrected.

Her face fell. "Nina Hopkins, then?" she muttered. "She always had superb taste . . ."

"No," Sebastian cut her off. "I chose it. It matched your eyes exquisitely."

Still standing on the steps, Elizabeth stared at him, their eyes perfectly level, their bodies perfectly still. "And here I thought you liked my fencing uniform best," she finally murmured, feeling the hot blush in her cheeks.

"Second best, young mistress."


	4. Chapter 4

"No, I am not going to wear a dress again!" With that, Ciel ordered Sebastian from the study.

Thinking over the latest disaster, Sebastian sighed as he poured Lady Elizabeth another cup of tea. She glanced up upon hearing it.

"I apologize for disturbing you, Lady Elizabeth . . ."

"He's still worried over that case, isn't he? The one he insists is causing no problems at all."

The butler nodded.

"Can you tell me what the trouble is?"

"I cannot speak in specifics, my lady, but the gist of the matter is this— I did some reconnaissance work alone and obtained an invitation to a ball tomorrow night, hosted in the home of our primary suspect."

"Is that not cause for celebration?"

"It would be, except the invitation is for both Professor Michaels— my alias, you understand— and his honorable new wife. I've already aroused some suspicions, and, should I attend without said "wife," certain parties will ask untoward questions that could set the investigation back months."

"Surely there is some actress in Ciel's network who may take on the role?"

"None who can both convincingly play a young gentlewoman and also treat this matter with the discretion it requires."

"Someone who's not an actress, then?" she asked, suddenly smiling.

"Mey-rin is a possibility, I suppose," Sebastian mused, "But even I would be hard-pressed to remedy her accent in time . . ." He noticed Elizabeth's impish expression. "No, my lady, we could not ask that of _you_!"

"Whyever not? I'm ready, able, and more than willing to be of assistance."

He stared at her for a moment more, a devilish grin spreading across his own face.

* * *

"Your refreshments, Mrs. Michaels."

Sebastian held out a plate of biscuits— tastefully rearranged according to his butler sensibilities— to Elizabeth, and she thanked him, pitching her voice lower, drawing the words out. To avoid being accidentally recognized, she had donned both a new way of speaking and a rather unusual costume— Paula had pinned her blonde curls tight to her head and placed a wig on top, rolling its black tresses into an intricate bun. She wore a pale pink dress that, despite being simpler in design than she was used to, still showed off her figure splendidly.

Various interested parties around the room watched the couple carefully. Ciel, smuggled in as the Michaels' footman, noticed their distraction and slipped out the door, seeking more private rooms.

"How will we know if Ciel is discovered?" Elizabeth said. Both she and Sebastian wore perfectly polite smiles as they planned to rob their host's home, thus appearing indistinguishable from the conversationalists around them.

"He and I have developed a system of communication precisely to rescue him from captivity," he replied. "Lemonade?"

"No, I'm quite refreshed," she assured him, raising her voice slightly as she saw one of the criminals walk by. "But please," she returned to a quieter tone, "Do let me know if he finds himself in trouble."

"Have you a sabre strapped under your dress with which to rescue him?"

"Not at all, dear," Elizabeth cooed. "Simply two handguns. My mother taught me to shoot almost as well as I fence."

"And wherever did you get the firearms?"

"From our maid, naturally. She brought me quite a selection with the petticoats today."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're one hell of a wife?"

She shook her head, suddenly giggling.

For hours, they danced with others, merely glancing at each other over their partners' shoulders. Late in the night, Sebastian found his way back to Elizabeth. "A dance, my lady?"

She paused, considering. "I'd be delighted, Seb— Mr. Michaels."

Inhaling deeply, Elizabeth placed one hand on his shoulder, fingers ghosting against his sharply sculpted neck. He raised his hand first to her face, touching a wayward black curl, coiling the silken lock around his finger before tucking it back behind her ear. That gloved hand slipped downwards then, settling at her waist, and she gasped, quite by accident, as his other hand took hers and interlaced their fingers.

Tall, impossibly graceful, he led her in the waltz, and she instinctively trusted his every motion and let herself spin blindly. With the subtlest of presses, he guided her flawlessly among the crowd of couples in the ballroom, her skirt never so much as grazing another lady's, even though his eyes were fixed on hers the whole while through.

"We will leave the ball after this," he breathed into her ear.

Ciel had crept back, fist clenched around a most fascinating paper— a list of Latin incantations compiled by the criminals, all explicitly designed to destroy devils— and he had just slipped into the ballroom, only to see Elizabeth and Sebastian together. They were dancing, both impossibly graceful as they stepped and turned in rhythm, in harmony. Ciel shook his head, reminding himself that they were both merely playing their parts as a newlywed couple, that they served him alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Even after the triumph at the ball, the case dragged on, but _why_ Elizabeth couldn't tell. When she asked questions, Ciel snapped at her or waved her away, while Sebastian simply shook his head, explicitly forbidden from answering.

The two of them had left to finish the case off a few months ago. They were supposed to return last week. Now, the servants paced the halls, whispering anxiously. Finny tore up all the flowerbeds out of nervous energy, Bard was setting fire to the kitchen twice each day, and Mey-rin entirely gave up cleaning, instead waiting on the manor's rooftop and aiming her rifle at every bird in sight.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and checked herself in the mirror, adjusting her posture before repeating a footwork drill. All the while, she considered the situation. Sebastian would keep Ciel safe, would preserve the dear, human husband she had sworn as a child to protect. Sebastian would keep himself safe, too, for he had clearly been engineered— tortured?— to be inhumanly strong.

And yet she worried for them both, and in equal amounts.

When the carriage finally clattered to the front door, a hired coachman was driving. Ciel climbed out, healthy but muttering irritatedly. "Damn convulsions . . ."

As Ciel strode into the manor, Bard and Finny clambered in and carried out the butler, a silent, jerking wreck. His eyes were closed, apparently unconscious. His body, otherwise unharmed, shuddered and spasmed in unceasing rhythm.

Elizabeth blanched at the sight, but she swiftly stepped forward, sending Bard off for the doctor, showing Finny how to lay Sebastian down on the sofa, instructing Mey-rin to fetch water and Paula to get medicine.

As the servants bustled about, she whipped around to face Ciel, who still stood at the foot of the stairs. "Why did you let this happen?"

"I didn't know he was so weak," he spat.

"Do you think him invulnerable?"

He barked out a laugh.

"Tell me, Ciel! How do I heal him?" she asked, words tinged with pleading. "We can't let him die."

"What," Ciel mocked. "Would you _miss_ him?"

She opened her mouth in passionate response, for she would indeed miss him— the incisive, impossibly perceptive gaze of his cherrywood eyes, the magnificent wit tightly reined in by that servile facade, the kindness he had revealed to her beneath the hardened edges of his cynicism . . .

Then she saw Ciel pressing his sole eye shut, face twisted with feeling. "He won't die," he muttered, voice suddenly hoarse. "I feel as if I've seen this before . . ."

"Where?"

Ciel turned his face away and strode up the stairs. "Don't worry, Lizzie," he declared without looking back at her, "I'd bet my life that Sebastian will be serving us tea tomorrow morning."


	6. Chapter 6

As Ciel predicted, Sebastian served the tea the next morning, well-kempt and neatly dressed, but Elizabeth still watched him suspiciously. The convulsions had subsided, only to be replaced by a subtle, rapid shaking. His red irises in particular vibrated back and forth with frenzied speed, blurred like a string suddenly pulled too taut.

He approached her later. "Would you please fence with me?"

"Are you well, Sebastian?" she asked. When he opened his mouth to reply, she reminded him, "Remember that you can't lie."

"Do you remember . . ." Sebastian's words were tumbling out too fast, and the whole world flickered as if lit by candlelight— damn those exorcists! "Do you remember how you knew the fencing would save you? From Ciel, from this house, from your grief?"

"How could I forget?"

"We have that in common, you and I, we are most ourselves when we are fighting. Please, my lady. Fence with me."

Elizabeth studied him for a moment. "If you falter for a single second, we stop."

Sebastian would not falter. He won the first match, though the victory came with surprising difficulty.

As they began again, he could feel his composure slipping— though his human body remained steady, he felt his demonic essence seeping forth and tainting his brain. And so his blows came more forcefully, and he danced around Elizabeth, flying, spinning inhumanly fast, like a child's top.

He could hear her breathing hard, yet she stood firm and blocked each blow. He channeled a further reserve of fiendish strength into his movements, somehow unworried for her safety.

It seemed to Sebastian that everything slowed, as if the two of them were suspended underwater— he saw the curves of light traced by ripples on the walls. Then the world around them blended together, and he saw her alone. Behind her girlishness, he discovered strength— immense, if slightly chipped. Her every movement flowed with pure, ambrosial grace. Her limbs were endowed with a radiant divinity, rather as his own had once been . . .

The redhead reaper surfaced in his mind, slapping him back to reality, and he batted away the memory. There could be no comparison between Grell Sutcliff and Elizabeth Phantomhive.

Could there?

Sifting through the false perceptions, he found two facts. First, a death goddess— or part-death-goddess, at least— stood before him. Second, that goddess had just stabbed him in the chest.

He stumbled back, the breath jerked from his lungs, and she caught him before setting him softly on the ground and kneeling beside him. "I knew we shouldn't have tried this so soon . . ."

"Do not fret," he murmured, removing his mask. "I am unharmed." He removed her mask, too, and gazed at those sparkling green eyes as if for the first time. "And I discovered an interesting truth in our combat."

"What truth?"

Sebastian placed a gentle hand behind Elizabeth's neck, pulled her close, and kissed her.


	7. Chapter 7

"Damn hallucinations."

Now fully recovered, Sebastian muttered to himself as he cleaned the silverware that night, taking special pleasure in licking off spots of the exorcists' blood. "Damn it all."

His thoughts whirred inhumanly fast. Why did those meddling priests have to pick, of all rituals, _that_ one? Why had his mind reacted by seeing things that weren't there— or things that were? Why did those last visions have to center on Elizabeth? Why hadn't the hallucinations bothered to say whether Ciel was part-reaper, too? And what, in the name of Hell, possessed him to kiss his young mistress?

He had answers for that last question, a surfeit of excellent answers. Elizabeth clearly required affection as much as food or water, and how could he be a Phantomhive butler if he did not fulfill that need? If neither Ciel nor he provided her with kindness, who would? A bottle of scotch? Elizabeth nearly turned to one, just months back.

What if she found comfort in the arms of another man? Ciel would not enjoy wasting his time with the scandal of _that_ scenario. And if Elizabeth's chosen lover was an enemy of the Watchdog, then Ciel would be at risk for more, far more, than mere public scandal.

Or what if Elizabeth's hunger for love turned into a overnourished, glutted hatred? What if this sharp, swift daughter of reapers turned against the husband she had once sworn to love? Could Ciel truly order his demon to kill her?

To hell with the what-ifs. As things stood in the present, would Ciel order his demon to kill her?

After all, Ciel was rather . . . _impulsive_ where Sebastian was concerned, and the servant knew too well that his lord's cruelty ran deep. He wouldn't be shocked, no, would even admire it in a twisted fashion, if his young master demanded Elizabeth's death at a demon's hands.

Sebastian could feel himself starting to shudder again, just imagining the potential irony. The irony that part of him wouldn't want to murder her. The irony that nothing but his own demon self had possessed him to kiss her.

The solution, of course, was blissfully simple. He would never tell Ciel about his relationship with Elizabeth. He would restrain himself around his young mistress, giving no more than she needed. Perhaps he could even bring himself, eventually, to sidestep his orders and give of himself to Ciel as well, assuaging any latent jealousy the young lord might feel towards his wife. It would be the strangest household arrangement he had come across, but the demon was almost looking forward to it . . .

It was then that his keen demon ears heard Elizabeth's words drifting from Ciel's study, voice clearly straining with emotion. "Yes, Ciel. I kissed Sebastian."


	8. Chapter 8

"What the hell?"

"Please, young master . . ."

" _What_ , in the name of _Hell_?"

"I had many clear reasons, young master . . ."

"You stopped her from drinking, from philandering outside the house, et cetera, et cetera," Ciel fumed. "I'm fully aware of all your excuses. But what . . ." The earl stopped himself, clenching the cushion of the massive chair in his study, digging his nails into the cloth. "Fine. Tell me, did Lizzie tell the truth? One kiss, tinted with delusions on your part, and that's all?"

"Indeed."

"And what do you intend to do now?" Ciel asked, his tone suddenly clinical, as if he was simply interrogating Sebastian about one of the Watchdog's cases.

The butler's eyes widened with surprise. "I don't know what you mean . . ."

"What have you planned for her? Don't tell me, demon, that you think of her only as a potential lover . . ."

"I think of her as a demon's potential lover, which is actually a rare distinction . . ."

Ciel recoiled. "You'll break her heart, Sebastian."

"Why would I bother, when you break it so effectively yourself?"

"Oh, stop evading," the young lord spat, enunciating each word with brutal clarity. "What tortures have you in mind for her?"

"Young master, you forget that I am a connoisseur of souls," Sebastian shot back. "As such, I have no interest in shattering a magnificent spirit— except by my devouring it, but that is not the matter at hand. And her spirit is magnificent, young master, much as yours is. You are both scarred by the grief of _that month_. You are both more capable and far more bloodthirsty than your innocent faces suggest. You are both dedicated to lofty but hopeless goals . . ."

"Hopeless?"

"You are seeking to restore the honor of your dead parents, and she seeks to restore _you_."

Ciel watched Sebastian silently, a flash of jealousy— longing— flickering across his face. "So you intend to be unambiguously good to her."

"Provided I am permitted to, yes."

"I suppose it's impossible for you to ever be so straightforwardly kind to a soul you've contracted with."

"You suppose correctly," Sebastian murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle. "The irony of the ending would overshadow our every interaction."

Ciel stared down at his desk for a moment, before lifting his eyes back up and forcing himself to speak conversationally. "Did you know she called you an angel?"

"She means it rhetorically, no doubt."

"I am not so sure. Don't you dare hurt her, Sebastian."

"I have no intention of . . ."

"This is an order, demon," Ciel slipped off the eyepatch, and a quiver that only a fiend could discern twitched at his chin. "Don't hurt her, even after I am gone. Treat her better than you'd treat me."

"Yes, my lord."


	9. Chapter 9

A new enemy had attacked Phantomhive Manor, and all forces had been deployed in its defence. The butler loomed tall in front of the main door, black talons slashing, silver forks glinting as he hurled them into the night. A smaller figure stood behind him, two swords slick with blood. Ciel looked on from an upstairs window.

As he watched Elizabeth and Sebastian battle back-to-back, his own face flushed with double-edged jealousy. As always, he cursed his sick mind that never took an interest in feminine charms, even though Lizzie was attractive and lovely by all others' accounts. Yet he also cursed the love he had— the utterly grey love for a black-and-white creature, currently laying low armies with a silverware set. So often, Ciel had imagined the feel of that soft, gloved hand on his own softer face, tracing the hollow of his cheek. He imagined Sebastian leaning forward to bestow a kiss, gentle, laced with only the slightest trace of mocking . . .

Mocking. As always, the image of Sebastian's mocking smirk shook Ciel from his folly. No, he could never entrust his pathetic, human heart to his taunting, hellish mercenary.

And so the young earl had buried his raging affection and pretended disinterest, merely observing his butler from afar. When Sebastian looked at him, Ciel seized the opportunity to stare back, studying his butler's expressions, at times discovering amusement, irritation, pity, resentment or— inexplicably— fear.

Yet Sebastian regarded Elizabeth with pure respect.

Ciel had commanded his demon to stay with Elizabeth through her life, praying that Sebastian might for once make a show of disobedience; after all, there was no obligation to take orders that could outlast the contract. Yet Sebastian had immediately, eagerly accepted. A good man would have taken pleasure in that success, would have been glad to arrange the happiness of the one he should have loved and the one he did. But Ciel Phantomhive was not a good man.

Blinking the tears from his two-toned eyes, the Earl of Phantomhive watched from the window and pretended his wife and butler were mere pawns. For the rest of his short, short life, he pretended they lived and fought only for him.

Yet Sebastian and Elizabeth stepped and turned in timeless rhythm, concordant in their mismatched harmony.


End file.
